f for the morrow. She was content patiently to abide
the Lord.

CHAPTER 8

But one, I wis, was not at home,
Another had paid his gold away,
Another called him thriftless loone,
And bade him sharply wend his way.

--Heir of Lynne

'He is done for. That wife of his may feel the consequence of meddling
in other folk's concerns. Not that I care for that now, there's metal
more attractive; but she has crossed me, and shall suffer for it.' These
short sentences met the ear of a broad-shouldered man in a rough coat,
as, in elbowing his way through the crowd on the quay at Boulogne, he
was detained for a moment behind two persons, whose very backs had all
the aspect of the dissipated Englishman abroad. Struggling past, he
gained a side view of the face of the speaker. It was one which he
knew; but the vindictive glare in the sarcastic eyes positively made him
start, as he heard the laugh of triumph and derision, in reply to some
remark from the other.

'Ay! and got enough to get off to Paris, where the old Finch has dropped
off his perch at last. That was all I wanted of him, and it was time
to wring him dry and have done with him. He will go off in consumption
before the year is out--'

As he spoke, the stranger turned on him an honest English face, the lips
compressed into an expression of the utmost contempt, while indignation
flashed in the penetrating gray eyes, that looked on him steadily.
His bold defiant gaze fell, quailing and scowling, he seemed to become
small, shrink away, and disappeared.

'When scamp number two looks round for scamp number one, he is lost
in the crowd,' muttered the traveller, half smiling; then, with a deep
breath, 'The hard-hearted rascal! If one could only wring his neck!
Heaven help the victim! though, no doubt, pity is wasted on him.'

He ceased his reflections, to enter the steamer just starting for
Folkestone, and was soon standing on deck, keeping guard over his
luggage. The sound of a frequent cough attracted his attention, and,
looking round, he saw a tall figure wrapped in great-coats leaning on
the leeward side of the funnel.

'Hollo! you here, Arthur! Where have you been?'

'What, Percy? How d'ye do?' replied a hoarse, languid voice.

'Is Mrs. Martindale here?'

'No.' He was cut short by such violent cough that he was obliged to rest
his forehead on his arm; then shivering, and complaining of the cold, he
said he should go below,